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HE  WINE  OF  MAY 


FRED  LEWIS  PAT" 


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THE  WINE   OF   MAY, 

AND    OTHER  LYRICS. 

BY 

FRED   LEWIS   PATTEE. 


"  Visions  of  too  lovely  things 

To  endure  the  strain  of  time, 
Ere  -we  give  you  shape  and  wings 

Of  harmonious  thought  or  rhyme, 
Life  so  short  is  come  and  gone 

While  we  dream : 
Only  touches  of  the  dawn 
Glint  our  theme." 

HOSKEN. 


CONCORD,  N.  H.: 

REPUBLICAN   PRESS  ASSOCIATION,   RAILROAD  SQUARE. 
I893. 


Copyright,  1893, 
BY  F.  L.  PATTEE. 


•PS 


DED1CATION. 

The  days  are  flying,  love-, 

The  youthful  spring  is  winging  fast  his  flight, 
The  May  is  fading  ''neath  the  summer's  kiss, 
The  rose  is  yielding  to  the  clematis, 

The  morning  fades  to  noon,  the  noon  to  night. 

The  years  are  flying,  love; 

The  friends  of  long  ago  we  know  no  more, 

The  dreams  of  May,  our  galleons  rich  and  dim, 
Sank  one  by  one  below  the  oceatfs  brim, 
And  now  we  stand  alone  upon  the  shore. 

Let  days  and  years  flow  on ; 

Let  fortune  fail  us ,  dear,  and  worldly  fame ; 

Let  fade  the  daffodils,  the  summer  rose ; 

Let  autumn  blight,  let  fall  the  winter  snows  ; 
We  rmirmur  not,  our  life  flows  on  the  same. 

The  years  are  flying,  dear] 

Our  love  is  deeper  now  with  every  day, 
We  know  each  other  better  with  each  year, 
For  each  but  draws  us  nearer  and  more  near ; 
We^re  finding  now  the  galleons  lost  in  May. 


7G29G1 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Dedication iii 

THE   WINE   OF   MAY. 

The  Wine  of  May 3 

Moods  of  Defeat       .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .  13 

My  Songs 17 

To  a  Water  Lily 18 

The  Picket's  Song 19 

Nature  is  a  Dainty  Belle    .......  20 

Evening  Song       ........  21 

Indian  Pipe      .........  22 

The  Old  Farmhouse 24 

Manisses           .........  25 

Morning  Glories    ........  26 

Compensation 26 

Rizpah          .........  27 

Song  of  the  Vaquero 30 

SONGS   OF   THE   MAINE   WOODS. 

King  of  the  Lakes 35 

The  Hemlock  Forest         .......  37 

The  Watch  on  Suncook 38 


VI 


CONTENTS. 


To  C.  A.  Stephens  ...  4° 

Morning  on  the  Dead  River   ...  42 

In  the  Sugar  Camp    .  •                             43 

THE   ROUND   YEAR. 

Three  Nights         .                                     •  47 

Marsh  Song               .                                       •  .48 

The  Dead  Robin            .         .  49 

The  Hermit  Thrush           ...  5<> 

Sweet  Viburnum    ....  ...              51 

The  Fading  Spring                                        •  52 

July      .         .  53 

At  the  Waumbek      .  54 

June  and  November       ...  .                      55 

Indian  Summer         ......  5° 

Snowflakes   .....••••  57 

In  the  Hemlocks       ...  58 

SEVENTEEN   SONNETS. 

I.  After  Reading  Milton   .  6l 

II.  For  a  Copy  of  Byron        .         .  62 

III.  On  Seeing  a  Skull      .         .  63 

IV.  Remorse         ....  64 

V.  Faded  Pansies 65 

VI.  The  Night  of  May           .  •                      66 

VII.  To  a  Robin      ....  .                           67 

VIII.  O  Summer  Night          .  .68 

IX.  August 69 


CONTENTS.  Vll 

X.  September       ........  70 

XI.  October 71 

XII.  November 72 

XIII.  The  House  on  the  Marsh 73 

XIV.  For  a  Copy  of  "  Poems  about  Life,  Love,  and  Death"  74 

XV.  At  Midnight 75 

XVI .  On  a  Fly  Leaf  of  the  « «  Wind  of  Destiny  "          .         .  76 

XVII.  To  Charles  Henry  Liiders 77 

PASTELS. 

I.  The  Forgotten  Picture       .......  81 

II.  The  Noon  Hour 82 

III.  After  the  Storm 83 

IV.  One  Night  in  May      . 84 

V.  After  Our  Summer  .......  85 

VI.  The  Summer  Shower  86 


THE  WINE  OF  MAY. 


THE   WINE   OF   MAY. 

"And  sometimes  a  few  half-ripe  clusters  were  pressed,  even  in  May, 
but  September  was  the  month  of  the  vintage." — Bib.  Ency. 

Ah  !  vinter,  why  pluck  now  the  vine  ? 
Why  press  the  early  grapes  for  wine  ? 

The  harvest  month  is  far  away, 

And  who  will  sip  the  wine  of  May, 
The  tasteless  vintage  such  as  thine  ? 
We  have  rare  wines  of  every  brand, 
Of  ei>ery  age,  of  every  land. 

A  thankless  task  is  surely  thine 

To  pluck  in  May  the  callow  vine 
And  press  for  wine  with  unskilled  hand. 

I  hailed  the  vinter,  while  he  sang 

A  droning  song,  now  low  and  sweet, 
A  song  that  with  a  cadence  rang 
To  guide  his  treaders'  busy  feet. 

I  hailed  him,  but  he  heeded  not ; 
I  heard  the  rustling  of  the  vine, 

I  heard  the  treaders'  rhythmic  beat, 
I  heard  the  gushing  of  the  wine, 

And  as  he  sang  his  words  I  caught 


THE  WINE  OF  MA  Y. 


THE  MONTH  OF  DREAMS. 


Tell  me  of  the  month  of  dreams  : 
Comes  it  in  the  mellow  days 
When  the  barley  and  the  maize 

Crown  the  field  ? 
When  the  breezes  and  the  streams 

Sing  a  far-off  melody  ? 
When  the  songsters  all  are  gone, 
And  the  summer  meads  are  shorn 

Of  their  yield  ? 
When  a  mist  is  on  the  sea 
And  a  spell  on  hill  and  lea, 
Till  like  Arcady  it  seems  ? 
Say,  is  this  the  month  of  dreams  ? 

II. 

Tell  me  of  the  month  of  dreams  : 
Is  it  not  the  winsome  May, 
Wilding  month  of  roundelay 

And  of  love  ? 
When  the  sun  with  joyous  beams 

Warms  the  lush  and  steaming  earth, 


THE    WINE   OF  MAY. 

And  the  dreamy  days  are  long, 
Perfume-haunted,  filled  with  song 

From  above  ? 

Month  of  promise,  month  of  mirth, 
When  a  thousand  joys  have  birth, 
And  the  future  golden  seems, 
Is  not  this  the  month  of  dreams  ? 

in. 

When  tread  out  the  wine  of  dreams  ? 
Why  not  in  the  maiden  May, 
Ere  the  dreams  all  flit  away 

Of  the  spring  ? 
Why  when  autumn's  dying  beams 

For  a  fleeting  day  bring  cheer  ? 
Sing,  O  treaders  of  the  May, 
Mystic  month  of  minstrelsy, 

Joyous  sing ! 

We  press  not  with  sigh  and  tear, 
Mingling  with  the  wine  our  fear ; 
But  the  heart  with  laughter  teems 
As  we  tread  the  wine  of  dreams. 


THE   WINE  OF  MAY. 

He  ceased,  and  now  the  motley  throng 
Of  treaders  caught  the  droning  song, 
A  dreamy  song,  that  o'er  and  o'er 
A  festive,  cheery  burden  bore  ; 
Their  bloody  feet 
With  rhythmic  beat 
Arose  and  fell  with  cadence  sweet, 

Arose  and  fell,  and  as  for  mine 
Unconsciously  they  beat  the  floor. 
Within  the  alcove  where  I  sat, 

I  saw  the  vinter  pluck  the  vine, 
I  caught  the  sparkle  of  the  wine 
That  gurgled  from  the  gushing  vat. 


SONG   OF  THE   TREADERS. 


Come,  brothers,  for  the  day  is  fleet — 
The  day  is  fleet,  however  long ; 
It  is  not  ours  to  tread  alone 
The  heaping  vat  with  sigh  and  moan, 
But  ours  to  join  the  choric  song, — 
The  seasons  roll  with  music  sweet, 
Let  us  roll  round  with  merry  feet. 


THE    WINE   OF  MA  Y. 


II. 


Come,  brothers,  for  the  day  is  fleet — 
Our  path  is  o'er  the  purple  grape ; 
Our  path  is  one  of  blood  to-day ; 
'T  is  ours  to  tread  the  grapes  of  May, 
To  tread  them  all  that  none  escape ; 
Their  hearts  must  burst  beneath  our  feet, 
For  hearts  must  burst  as  well  as  beat. 


in. 


Come,  brothers,  for  the  day  is  fleet, 
And  dance  with  merry  feet  around. 
For  all  revolves — the  days,  the  years, 
The  clumsy  earth,  the  distant  spheres- 
Without  a  stay,  without  a  sound, 
Our  life  rolls  on  with  rapid  feet, — 
Oh,  let  us  toil,  the  day  is  fleet. 

O  vinter,  there  are  floods  of  wine  ; 
Should  all  imbibe  the  liquid  vine, 
And  quaff  till  Death  with  pallid  hand 
Dashed  down  the  chalice  to  the  sand, 
Not  half  the  vineyards  of  the  Rhine 


8  THE    WINE   OF  MAY. 

Would  yield  their  nectar-scented  store, 
Not  half  the  wealth  of  Lesbians  shore, 
Of  Italy,  and  sunny  France, 
Upon  the  beaker's  brim  would  dance  : 
Why,  vinter,  dost  thou  give  us  more  ? 

Half  thoughtlessly  I  sipped  the  flood, 

The  tasteless,  unfermented  blood 

Of  budding  May,  of  dreamy  May, 

Of  laughing,  nimble-footed  May  : 

I,  too,  did  dream.     I  seemed  to  be 

In  fair  Seville  across  the  sea. 

A  southern  night,  a  southern  moon — 

The  rounding  treaders  seemed  to  me 

To  fade  in  air ;  their  droning  tune 

Came  like  the  music  in  a  swoon, 

And  far  away,  oh,  far  away, 

I  caught  the  murmur  of  a  lute, 

I  heard  the  sighing  of  a  flute, 

I  saw — oh,  let  me  dream  again 

And  pass  in  dreams  the  crawling  day  : 

I  knew  but  of  the  poet's  Spain, 

A  lotos  land  with  murmuring  streams, 

And  now  I  dreamed  a  dream  of  dreams. 


THE    WINE   OF  MAY. 


THE   DREAM   OF  SPAIN. 


0  will  you  hush,  dear  nightingale, 
Your  noisy  song,  your  plaintive  lay  ? 
I  hear  a  murmur  far  away 

Of  music  in  the  moonlight  pale, 

Of  mandolins  like  hearts  that  throb, 
Of  languorous  lutes  that  sigh  and  sob- 

1  know  thy  song,  I  know  thy  light, 
O  dreamy  Andalusian  night ! 

n. 

0  may  I  breathe,  dear  Philomel  ? 
They  come  upon  the  languid  night, 
Arrayed  in  soft,  voluptuous  light ; 

They  glide  like  shadows  down  the  dell. 
O  Spanish  maidens,  lithe  and  fair, 
With  eyes  of  night,  with  sable  hair, 

1  know  thy  sweet,  bewitching  train, 
O  laughing,  dreamy  maids  of  Spain  ! 


10  THE    WINE   OF  MA  Y. 

III. 

Oh,  sing  with  joy,  sweet  nightingale  ! 

Ring  mandolins  upon  the  night ! 

With  mad,  delirious  delight, 
The  perfumed  air,  the  haunted  vale, 

Are  throbbing  with  their  ecstasy. 

She  comes — oh,  joy  ! — my  queen,  to  me. 
My  queen,  my  own,  the  years  shall  roll, 

0  radiant  maiden  of  my  soul ! 

The  music  died  in  sighs  away ; 

The  moonbeams  lost  their  dreamy  tone  ; 
The  Alameda's  royal  way 

Was  gone ;  and  I  was  all  alone. 
I  looked,  with  eager  eyes,  to  see 
My  myrtle  bower,  the  orange  tree, 
The  haunted  air, 
The  maiden  fair, 

With  rippling  laughter,  rippling  hair, 
That  tripped  adown  the  night  with  me. 

1  only  saw  the  sweat  and  moil 
Of  treaders  at  their  weary  toil ; 

I  saw  the  dregs  within  the  bowl 
That  I  had  emptied  just  before  ; 
My  temples  throbbed ;  my  heart  was  sore ; 

A  great  disgust  swept  o'er  my  soul. 


THE    WINE   OF  MAY.  II 

Ah,  vinter,  shake  from  thee  thy  dream, 

As  I  from  me  have  shaken  mine. 
My  heart  is  aching :  it  doth  seem 

But  mockery  to  press  for  wine. 
Thy  vineyard  lies  on  barren  soil ; 

The  winds  of  winter  chafe  it  sore  ; 

No  harvest  can  it  have  in  store 
To  pay  the  worker  for  his  toil. 

To  sunnier  lands  we  look  for  wine : 
To  vineyards  old  in  dreamy  Spain, 

Along  the  Arno  and  the  Rhine, 

Amid  the  dells  of  Appenine, — 
Ah,  cease  thy  toil :  V  is  all  in  vain  ; 
For,  even  if  thy  wine  has  charms, 

'Tts  due  to  other  hands  than  thine. 

Methinks  I  taste  the  Rhenish  wine 
In  thy  pale  vintage,  and  the  palms 

Thou  twin's t  about  thy  leaden  bowl 

Conceal  the  leanness  of  thy  soul. 

He  heeded  not,  but  once  again 

His  dreamy  voice  caught  up  the  strain ; 

A  wave  of  sadness  o'er  me  stole  : 
His  longing  song  with  hint  of  pain 

Had  struck  a  chord  within  my  soul. 


1 2  THE    WINE   OF  MA  Y. 

SONG. 

0  love,  why  do  you  haste  away 

And  leave  my  burning  soul  behind? 

1  fain  would  wed  thee,  maiden  May, 
Sweet,  fleeting  month,  O  stay,  O  stay ! 

For  I  can  hear  the  empty  wind 
That  sobs  among  the  autumn  vines  ; 
I  hear  the  reaper  as  he  twines 

The  barley  sheaf  with  mournful  sigh — 

Oh,  must  thou  die  in  summer's  stream  ? 
Then  leave  a  pledge,  sweet  maiden  May, 

Yet  leave  thy  wine  that  I  may  dream. 

Press,  then,  thy  wine,  O  youth  of  dreams, 

Thy  tasteless  wine,  with  dance  and  song ; 

Thy  Maytime  cannot  last  thee  long, 
And  rapid  Summer's  burning  beams 

Will  parch  thy  veins  and  rouse  thy  fears. 

Alas  !  too  soon  the  blast  that  sears, 
The  autumn  with  its  hint  of  death, 
The  winter  with  its  icy  breath, 

Will  stop  thy  song  and  start  thy  tears. 
Farewell !  I  seek  the  Lesbian  wine, 

The  priceless  blood  of  vanished  years, 
The  Autumn's  mellow  store,  not  thine. 


MOODS  OF  DEFEAT.  1 3 

MOODS   OF    DEFEAT. 


I  can  no  more  contend, 

I  'm  weaker  than  my  foe. 
Why  fight  ?     I  cannot  bend, 

With  all  my  power,  his  bow  : 

My  arm  is  weak,  and  God  has  made  it  so. 

The  final  deal  has  been, 

And  from  the  game  I  'm  barred. 
I  cannot  hope  to  win, 

Should  I  try  e'er  so  hard, 

And  why  fight  on  without  a  master  card  ? 

I  once  was  rashly  brave, 

I  struggled  with  my  might, 
And  each  defeat  but  gave 

New  courage  and  new  light; 

I  hoarsely  cried,  "Though  down,  I  still  will  fight." 

I  toiled  as  toils  the  slave, 

And  fiercely  watched  my  foe  ; 
I  said  if  I  were  brave, 

My  strength  in  time  would  grow, 

And  when  he  weakest  was,  I  'd  strike  my  blow. 


14  THE    WINE   OF  MAY. 

Yet,  toil  I  as  I  may, 

I  ne'er  can  hope  to  be 
As  strong  as  he  to-day  ; — 

Why  toil  to  win  from  me  ? 

And  yet  I  can  no  fiercer  work  than  he. 

Why  fight  a  fight  with  fate  ? 

I  am  inclined  to  yield ; 
God  made  him  for  my  hate, 

Yet  made  for  him  a  shield. 

I  can  no  more  contend :  my  fate  is  sealed. 


II. 

What  boots  it  then  to  win  ? 

Why  toil  brief  life  away 
In  fever,  fret,  and  din 

To  gain  a  paltry  pay, 

The  triumph  of  a  day  ? 

Who  wins  must  pay  the  cost, 
Must  rest  and  gladness  sell, 

Count  every  pleasure  lost. 

He  first  must  pass  through  hell 
Who  would  of  victory  tell. 


MOODS  OF  DEFEAT.  15 

And  even  while  the  throng 

Its  empty  plaudits  yell, 
While  rings  the  triumph  song, 

And  while  the  hot  veins  swell 

In  ecstasy  of  joy, — the  knell. 

What  boots  it  then  to  win  ? 

And  is  it  worth  the  toil, 
The  heart-ache  and  the  din, 

The  torment  and  the  moil, 

To  gain  our  home  of  soil  ? 


in. 


Forgive  me,  I  was  wandering  yesternight ; 

Forget  my  weakling  wail,  my  maudlin  cry ; 
It  was  not  I  who  fain  would  quit  the  fight, 

Who  fain  would  yield  the  palm  and  whining  die  : 

A  demon  of  the  night  it  was,  not  I. 

I  am  a  man,  and  am  I  less  a  man 

Than  other  men  ?     And  shall  I  shrink  and  groan 

In  black  despair,  and  curse  God's  noble  plan, 
When  other  men  have  fought  the  fight  alone, 
Have  conquered,  or  have  died  without  a  moan  ? 


1 6  THE    WINE   OF  MAY. 

What  care  I  for  his  scorn,  his  ringing  taunt, 
That  I  am  lere  of  all  save  fierce  desire  ? 

A  roaring  reed,  with  strength  alone  to  vaunt 
My  impotence  ?  Ah  !  better  dare  the  fire, 
Like  Icarus,  and  die,  than  mount  no  higher ! 

Beware,  my  foe  !  although  my  strength  is  small, 
Though  baffled  and  beat  down,  I  still  can  fight ! 

Antaeus  like,  I  rise  from  every  fall 

With  fiercer  strength,  new  courage,  and  new  light. 
Who  conquers  me  must  struggle  with  his  might ! 


IV. 


Lay  on  with  all  thy  fury,  Boreas, 

Blow  with  thy  vengeance,  mighty  god  of  gales  ! 

I  dare  defy  thee,  though  thy  strength  surpass 
Mine  myriad-fold  :  the  weakling  coward  quails, 
Not  I,  although  thou  smite  with  all  thy  flails. 

Lay  on  :  where  man  has  fought,  I  fight. 
The  shouting  foe,  the  clangor,  and  the  spears 

But  serve  to  keep  my  armor  strong  and  bright. 
I  may  not  always  stay  my  foolish  tears, 
But  I  shall  fight,  and  fight  with  none  but  peers. 


MY  SONGS.  17 

MY   SONGS. 

I  sang  a  song,  a  mournful  song, 
To  tell  my  grief,  to  voice  my  wrong  ; 
It  died  upon  the  air  unheard, 
For  none  would  listen  to  a  word. 

I  sang  a  song,  a  truth  to  preach, — 
A  song  to  please,  and  yet  to  teach ; 
It  perished  even  on  my  tongue, 
For  none  would  hear  the  song  I  sung. 

Again,  I  sang  a  song  for  fame, — 
A  labored  song,  to  sound  my  name  ; 
It  died  upon  the  mocking  wind, 
And,  dying,  left  no  note  behind. 

I  sang  of  love,  a  little  song, 

Of  two  whom  fate  had  sundered  long, 

Until,  upon  the  battle  plain, 

She  soothed  him  back  to  life  again. 

I  sang,  nor  thought  of  what  I  sung ; 
I  found  my  notes  on  every  tongue, 
And  one — why  do  my  pulses  start  ? — 
Had  learned  my  little  song  by  heart. 


1 8  THE    WINE   OF  MAY. 

TO   A  WATER   LILY. 

On  Death's  dark  lake  there  blooms  a  flower. 
With  perfume  of  such  wondrous  power, 
That  should  a  mortal  take  its  breath, 
That  moment  he  were  cold  in  death. 

Its  petals  are  of  dazzling  light, 
Its  calyx  is  of  radiant  white, 
But  should  its  cup  a  mortal  see, 
The  blissful  look  his  last  would  be. 

With  this  sweet  flower  the  angel  Death 
Deprives  the  blessed  of  their  breath ; 
A  moment  of  its  joy  to  gain 
Is  worth  a  thousand  years  of  pain. 

O  flower  that  ravishes  my  sight, 

Thy  odor  were  a  god's  delight, 

And  thou  can'st  soothe  life's  leaden  ache 

Like  that  which  grows  on  Stygian  lake ; 

But  with  a  beauty  less  intense, 

And  fragrance  dulled  for  mortal  sense, — 

Thou  givest  all  the  gods  can  give, 

That  we  may  breathe  thy  breath  and  live. 


THE   PICKET'S  SONG.  1 9 

But  did  I  know  my  earthly  sight 
A  glimpse  of  thee  would  surely  blight, 
And  that  thy  nectar-scented  breath 
Would  woo  my  soul  away  to  death, 

Yet  would  I  seize  thy  spotless  cup 
And  drink  thy  wealth  of  odor  up, 
And,  in  revel  of  delight, 
Would  fade  with  thee  from  mortal  sight. 


THE   PICKETS'    SONG. 

Softly,  comrades,  they  are  sleeping, — 
Since  the  morning,  oh  how  long  has  been  the  way ! 

Though  we  sleep  not,  we  are  dreaming 

Of  the  days  when  steel  was  gleaming 
And  when  rifle  clashed  with  rifle  in  the  fray. 

But  the  army  now  is  sleeping : 

We  are  but  the  pickets,  keeping 
Ward  and  watch  before  the  camp  till  break  of  day. 

Softly,  comrades,  they  are  sleeping, — 
They,  the  muscle  of  the  North,  the  Nation's  stay. 
Some,  when  shell  and  death  were  flying, 
In  the  Southland  we  left  lying, — 


20  THE    WINE   OF  MA  V. 

They  were  sleeping  when  their  comrades  marched  away. 

Now  the  Northern  ranks  are  sleeping : 

We,  the  few,  are  pickets,  keeping 
Watch  and  ward  until  the  breaking  of  the  day. 

Softly,  comrades,  they  are  sleeping, 
And  we  watch  them  while  the  slow  years  steal  away. 

One  by  one  to  rest  we  're  going, 

For  our  eyes  are  heavy  growing ; — 
There  is  silence  o'er  the  campground  erst  so  gay ; 

For  the  Northern  ranks  are  sleeping : 

We  are  but  the  pickets,  keeping 
Watch  and  ward  until  the  breaking  of  the  day. 
May  30,  1891. 


NATURE   IS    A   DAINTY    BELLE. 

Nature  is  a  dainty  belle, 
With  a  thousand  dresses, 
Never  wearing  one  an  hour, 
Every  day  a  different  flower 
In  her  sunny  tresses. 
Ah !  she  is  a  winsome  maid, 
Every  one  confesses. 


EVENING  SONG.  21 

And  she  wears  a  thousand  shades, 
Like  the  frosted  bowers  : 

In  the  summer  green  and  blue, 
In  the  autumn  every  hue, 
In  all  seasons  flowers. 
Ah  !  she  wears  as  many  shades 
As  the  year  has  hours. 

And  the  older  she  becomes, 
Brighter  are  her  dresses, 

Till  she  shines  with  every  hue 
When  the  hands  of  winter  strew 
Gray  among  her  tresses. 
Ah  !  she  is  a  spendthrift  dame, 
Given  to  excesses. 


EVENING   SONG. 

The  sun  is  low  and  fair  Pasquaney  sleeps, — 
Breathe  softly  now  your  vespers,  linden  leaves ; 
The  thrushes  chant  her  evening  lullaby, 
And  reeds  and  rushes  murmuring  reply, 
"  Pasquaney  sleeps  ;  hush,  waves,  no  more  she  grieves." 


22  THE    WINE   OF  MAY. 

Thy  bride  is  sleeping,  gray  old  mountain  peak, 
Guard  her  sweet  beauty  from  thy  rocks  above  ; 
Bend  down  thy  shadows  ;  kiss  her  rippling  hair, 
For  she  is  pure  as  is  thy  mountain  air, 
And  fair  as  are  the  rosy  lips  of  love. 

Hush  !  hush  thy  babbling,  lawless  mountain  stream, 
For  evening  mists  are  robing  her  in  white ; 

The  darkness  veils  the  wooded  landscape  o'er, 
And  whispers  from  the  ripple-haunted  shore, 
"  Good  night,  sweet  lake  !  "  and  echoes  lisp,  "  Good  night." 


INDIAN    PIPE. 

Pale  ghost  of  flowers, 
That  in  the  midnight  hours 

From  dankest  mould 

Doth  from  the  inmost  covert  of  the  wood 

Rise  gaunt  and  cold, 

Thou  art  akin  to  those  dim  lights  that  glower 
From  pestilential  marsh  at  midnight's  hour, 

Or  phantom  fogs  that  glide 

Along  the  river's  brim  at  eventide. 


INDIAN  PIPE.  23 

Art  thou  some  fay, 
Who,  at  the  break  of  day, 

Forgot  to  flee  ? 

Or  yet,  a  relic  of  that  elfin  crew 

That  'neath  some  tree, 

At  midnight's  hour,  doth  hold  high  carnival 
By  moonlight  scant,  or  light  of  glow-worm  dull  ? 

Surprised  by  owl,  or  wind, 

Did  they  in  trembling  fright  leave  thee  behind  ? 

Ah,  phantom  flower, 

Thou  art  from  Pluto's  bower, 

A  noisome  spray, 

Beloved  by  Hecate  and  by  Proserpine. 

Speak,  flower,  and  say 
If  from  thy  petals  pale  and  clammy  vine 
A  mortal  hand  might  press  a  leaden  wine, 

A  cup  to  banish  pain, 

And  woo  to  Lethe's  opiate  domain  ! 


24  THE    WINE   OF  MA  Y. 

THE  OLD   FARMHOUSE. 

It  silent  stood,  alone, 

With  mould  and  mosses  gray, 
Beside  a  grassy  way, 

Till  years  and  years  had  flown. 

'T  was  there  in  childhood's  days, 
And  every  winter  gale 
About  its  walls  did  wail 

And  shrubs  choked  up  the  ways. 

In  boyhood's  romps  we  came 
And  tried  the  shaky  door, 
With  whispers  trod  the  floor, 

And  stole  without  again. 

And  once,  dear,  long  ago, 

We  wandered  through  the  dew, 
And  here  I  told  to  you 

Of  love  in  whispers  low. 

But  now  the  house  is  gone, 
And  every  passing  year 
Lets  fall  a  burden  here 

To  hide  its  wreck  forlorn. 


MANISSES.  25 

MANISSES. 

Lov'st  thou  the  angry  sea  ? 

Lov'st  thou  a  rocky  coast,  a  storm-beat  shore, 
Where  winter  strews  the  drifting  sand  with  wreck, 

And  waves  howl  evermore  ? 

Lov'st  thou  the  hale  old  sea  ? 

Lov'st  thou  the  rattling  block,  the  rustling  sail, 
The  hearty  sunburned  toilers  of  the  wave, 

And  riders  of  the  gale  ? 

Lov'st  thou  the  laughing  sea  ? 

His  dimpling  waters  in  the  sun  at  play, 
His  scattered  toys  upon  the  soft  sea  sand, 

His  merry  ripples  gay  ? 

Lov'st  thou  the  sad  old  sea? 

Lov'st  thou  his  weary  waves  that  never  rest, 
His  endless  moan  at  midnight,  morn,  and  noon, 

Like  sighs  from  human  breast  ? 

Dost  love  the  changing  sea  ? 

Then  hie  thee  on  the  white  wings  of  the  breeze, 
To  where  a  lovely  island  decks  the  wave, 

The  bride  of  ocean, — Manisses. 


26  THE    WINE   OF  MA  Y. 

COMPENSATION. 

Comes  there  an  hour  of  heavenly  joy, 
The  next  is  full  of  sorrow : 
After  every  wedding  bell 
Tolls  a  dreary  funeral  knell ; 
To-day  is  bright, — it  rains  to-morrow. 

And  yet,  cheer  up,  O  stricken  heart, 
And  bear  thy  heavy  grief  till  morning  ; 
Often  through  the  tear-dimmed  eyes, 
Gleam  the  hues  of  Paradise, 
And  though  it  rains  the  day  is  dawning. 


MORNING   GLORIES. 

The  hand  that  flung  the  corn 

Held  not  the  seed  from  which  thy  tendrils  sprung, 
The  cruel  harrow  pruned  thee,  thou  didst  live 

In  spite  of  depth  of  earth  upon  thee  flung. 

The  farmer  cursed  thy  form 

When  as  a  tiny  shoot  it  broke  the  ground ; 
He  cursed  thee  as  a  weed,  a  cumberer, 

Nor  spared  in  rage  to  pluck  and  tear  and  wound. 


KIZPAH.  27 

Yet  now  among  the  corn 

I  see  on  every  hand  thy  little  bell, 
Of  spotless  white,  or  pink,  or  paly  blue, 

Like  tints  upon  a  dainty  tropic  shell. 

A  single  bell  of  thine 

To  me  is  more  than  all  the  paltry  grain, 
For  I  am  cursed  as  but  a  cumberer, 

And  might  despair  did  I  not  know  thy  pain. 


RIZPAH. 

II  Samuel,  21 :  10. 

The  night  was  falling,  drear  and  black  with  clouds, 
From  out  the  Gibean  desert  sighed  the  wind, 
While  from  the  oaks  upon  the  barren  hill 
It  sobbed  and  wept  as  if  it  knew  the  woe 
And  anguish  that  they  hid ;  for  by  the  rock 
Where  fell  the  blackest  shade,  seven  ghastly  oaks 
Were  bearing  on  their  arms  the  forms  of  men. 

The  wind  sobbed  on,  now  clanking  with  dull  sound 
The  deadly  chains  ;  now  swaying  to  and  fro 


28  THE    WINE   OF  MA  Y. 

The  fleshless  limbs,  the  bare  and  grinning  skulls, 
And  bearing  ghastly  odors  down  the  glen. 
Hark !  from  the  wild,  the  eager,  yelping  cry 
Of  jackals  speeding  to  their  prey ;  and  now 
The  demon  whine  of  foul  hyenas,  and 
The  croak  of  ravens  nesting  in  the  oaks ! 
But  ere  they  reached  their  banquet  'mid  the  trees, 
From  out  the  shadows  came  a  woman's  form, 
With  wild,  dishevelled  hair,  and  garments  torn. 
"  Begone  ! "  she  cried,  and  all  the  night  was  still. 

"Alone,  O  God  !  Is  there  no  hand  but  mine 

To  guard  your  precious  ashes,  O  my  sons  ? 

Is  there  no  pity  in  the  hearts  of  men, 

That  here  upon  the  mountain's  brow  alone, 

From  early  harvest  even  unto  now, 

My  hand  must  shield  your  cold  forms,  O  my  own  ? 

"  Was  it  for  this  I  bore  thee,  O  my  sons  ? 

Was  it  for  this  my  mother-love  was  spent, 

That  in  your  blooming  manhood  you  should  die, 

All  innocent  of  crime,  a  death  of  shame, 

And  rot,  uncared  for  and  unwept  ?     O  God  ! 

Why  take  my  all  to  sate  thine  awful  wrath  ? 

Why  should  they  die  when  but  their  father  sinned  ? 


KIZPAH.  29 

"And  I  have  dreamed,  and  fairest  dreams  were  mine : 
You  were  my  all,  my  sons,  and  I  had  thought 
That  wealth  and  glory  would  be  yours,  and  you 
Would  cheer  my  failing  years.     But  woe  is  me  ! 
Are  these  still  forms  my  sons,  my  noble  sons  ? 

"  O  God  !  my  heart  is  withered,  and  my  soul 
Is  like  a  tomb,  and  creeping  through  my  brain 
Are  slimy  things  that  make  of  life  a  hell. 
Is  there  no  end  unto  this  ghastly  watch  ? 
Is  there  no  pity  in  the  hearts  of  men  ? " 

She  bowed  her  head  again  upon  the  rock : 

And  all  was  still,  save  where  the  desert  wind 

Sobbed  weirdly  in  the  trees,  and  far  away 

On  Hebron's  lonely  height  a  prowling  beast 

Amid  the  solitudes  sent  forth  his  cry ; 

And  now  and  then  there  creaked  the  ghastly  chains 

That  bound  the  dead,  while  black  clouds  hid  the  moon. 


30  THE    WINE   OF  MAY. 

SONG   OF   THE  VAQUERO. 

Ah,  there  's  life  on  the  Mexic  plain 
Where  the  norther  snorts  amain  ; 
With  my  foaming  steed 

I  scorn  the  wind 
And  the  wild  stampede 

With  terror  blind, 

And  the  herd's  fierce  roar — Oh,  the  blood  of  Spain 
It  leaps  and  surges  and  fires  my  brain, — 
Hurrah,  heigh  ho ! 

Oh,  I  love  the  wild  pampas  free, 
As  the  swallow  loves  the  lea. 
O'er  its  bosom  wide 

The  mad  storms  fly, 
And  the  herder  can  ride 

Till  he  fades  in  the  sky ; 
In  the  sweep  of  the  eye  not  a  hillock  or  tree, 
And  the  surge  of  the  grass  like  the  billows  at  sea, — 
Hurrah,  heigh  ho  ! 

And  there 's  love  on  the  Mexic  plain 
Where  the  fierce,  wild  passions  reign. 
In  the  Mexic  dance, 
In  the  fandango, 


SONG  OF  THE    VAQUERO.  31 

One  may  catch  a  glance 
From  eyes  that  glow. 

Oh,  the  flashing  eyes !  Oh,  the  eyes  of  Spain, 
And  the  dainty  hands  one  would  die  to  gain, — 
To  gain, — Ah  me  ! 

Then  hurrah  for  the  plains — ho !  ho  ! 
And  their  king,  the  Vaquero, 
For  he  leaps  as  the  hind 
Leaps,  wild  and  free, 
And  he  sweeps  as  the  wind 

Sweeps  over  the  sea, 
And  dash  and  danger  are  his  to  know, 
And  life  and  love  in  endless  flow, — 
Hurrah,  heigh  ho ! 


SONGS  OF  THE  MAINE  WOODS. 


KING   OF   THE   LAKES. 

TO  THE  LOON  OVER  MY  STUDY  DOOR. 

Hoarse  warder  of  the  northern  lakes, 
And  hearty  trumpeter  of  heaven, 

Precursor  of  the  storm  ; 
How  stark  and  still !     My  bosom  aches, 
And  I  am  plunged  in  reverie 
Before  thy  pulseless  form. 

Oft  have  I  heard  on  high  thy  yell 

When  night  and  blackness  held  the  wood 

And  drugged  with  damps  the  air ; 
A  scream  as  if  some  soul  for  hell 
Had  paused  upon  the  wings  of  night 
To  shriek  in  its  despair. 

Or  yet,  at  dusk,  by  some  wild  lake, 
Amid  the  northern  solitudes, 
I  Ve  heard  thy  were-wolf  cry 


36         SONGS  OF  THE  MAINE  WOODS. 

When  all  was  still ;  and,  half  awake, 

Have  fancied  it  the  woodland's  voice, — 
The  solitude's  wild  sigh. 

A  quavering  laugh  that  hangs  in  air, 
Till,  fading  into  echoes  low, 

It  sighs  itself  away ; 
The  voice  of  ages  of  despair, — 
The  pent-up  cry  of  solitude, 
And  desolation's  sway. 

Now  art  thou  mute,  as  if  by  Fate, 
Like  Niobe,  congealed  to  stone. 
Speak !     Why  that  stony  gaze, 
Whose  terror  time  cannot  abate  ? 

What  thing  of  horror  fixed  thine  eyes 
And  froze  thee  with  amaze  ? 

Speak,  spirit  of  the  pathless  wild, 

Whose  silence  breaks  but  to  thy  voice ! 

Let  me  thy  secrets  win, 
Of  some  lone  lake,  some  sylvan  child 
That  nestles  in  the  forest's  lap 
Where  man  has  never  been. 


THE  HEMLOCK  FOREST.  37 

My  life  is  cramped, — it  longs  for  flight, 
Bold  sailor  of  the  lake  and  sky, 

To-day  I  fain  would  be 
Wild  as  the  spirit  of  the  night, 
And  seek,  unfettered,  unconfined, 
The  northern  lakes  with  thee. 


THE   HEMLOCK   FOREST. 

Deep  in  Katahdin's  lands, 

Where  roll  the  wild  head  waters  of  the  Allequash, 
And  nothing  breaks  the  silence  save  the  splash 
Of  wading  herons  and  the  loon's  weird  cry, 
O'er  lonely  lakes  that  wild  and  nameless  lie ; 
Black,  shaggy,  vast,  and  still  as  Barca's  sands, 
A  hemlock  forest  stands. 

So  dense  its  mantle  black, 

'  Tis  dark  at  mid-day,  and  at  night  there  shines  no  star ; 
And,  save  the  owl  heard  weirdly  from  afar, 
Within  its  depths  no  voice  of  beast  or  bird, 
And  on  its  velvet  floors  no  step  is  heard, 
Save  when,  at  dead  of  night,  the  hungry  pack 
Fling  fearful  echoes  back. 


38         SONGS  OF  THE  MAINE  WOODS. 

O  forest  like  a  pall ! 

0  hemlock  of  the  wild  !     O  brother  to  my  soul ! 

1  love  thy  mantle  black,  thy  shaggy  bole, 

Thy  form  grotesque,  thy  spreading  arms  of  steel ; 

For  when  the  storm  sifts  down  its  snow  like  meal, 
Thy  matted  branches  bend  and  take  it  all 
Nor  let  their  burdens  fall. 

And  when  I  think  of  thee, 

I  see  the  wild  head  waters  of  the  Allequash, 
The  streams  that  in  the  Caucogomoc  dash, 
And  Athabasca  with  its  nameless  lakes  ; 
For  where  the  moose  the  pathless  forest  breaks, 
There  is  thy  home,  O  rugged  hemlock  tree, 
Child  of  the  forest  free. 


THE  WATCH   ON   SUNCOOK. 

Amid  the  darkness,  floating  like  a  dream, 
The  water  does  not  whisper  at  the  bow, 
The  boatman,  with  his  paddle  strong  and  low, 

Without  a  ripple  drives  us  down  the  stream 

Out  into  Suncook's  waters,  and  across 

Where  lie  the  narrow  bays  and  muddy  coves, 

Weed-filled  and  choked  with  lily  pads,  half  lost 
Amid  the  shadows  of  the  hemlock  groves. 


THE    WA  TCH  ON  SUNCOOK.  39 

Like  forest  ghosts  our  lonely  watch  we  keep, 

Around  us  league  on  league  the  wild  Maine  land, 
Vast,  shaggy,  pathless,  fresh  from  Nature's  hand, 

And  silence, — blank,  profound,  the  waters  sleep. 

Yet,  ah  !  a  splash  borne  sharply  through  the  night, 
That  sends  the  heart  abeating  in  the  throat, 

A  lonely  beaver  diving  in  his  fright, 

Then  hours  of  silence,  save  a  heron's  note. 

Alert  and  still  till  all  the  senses  ache, 

The  moon  peers  large  and  red  above  the  pines 
With  weird,  mysterious  light,  that  dimly  shines 

Amid  the  trees  and  gilds  the  sleeping  lake. 

An  owl's  lone  voice  comes  from  the  mountain  side, 
A  bear's  shrill  cry  rings  wildly  o'er  the  coves, 

The  silent  stars  above  us  coldly  ride, 

And  Venus  sinks  below  the  black  fir  groves. 

Beneath  the  trees  the  ghostly  shadows  float, 
A  voice  far-borne  comes  from  the  wilderness, 
A  cry  long  drawn,  from  whence  no  ear  can  guess ; — 

Hark !  yet  again  a  quavering  note. 

Hour  after  hour  upon  the  sleeping  lake, 

We  know  the  woodland  teems  with  bird  and  beast, 

And  yet  upon  our  ears  no  footsteps  break, — 
In  vain,  to  camp,  there's  morning  in  the  east. 


40         SONGS  OF  THE  MAINE  WOODS. 

TO   C.   A.    STEPHENS. 

I  build  not  castles  fair  in  misty  Spain, 
I  dream  not,  when  I  dream,  of  sunny  lands, 
Of  spicy  isles,  of  mystic  Araby, 
The  softened  azure  of  the  Cyclades, 
Or  where  the  Arno  hastens  to  the  sea ; 
But  oft,  when  golden  autumn  dyes  the  leaf, 
I  sit  and  muse  on  that  enchanted  land 
Far  up  the  Allequash  by  Chamberlain, 
Amid  the  hemlocks  and  the  sighing  pines. 
And  oft  I  long  to  breathe  its  balsamed  air, 
To  walk  amid  its  pathless  solitudes, 
To  float  all  day  upon  its  nameless  lakes, 
And  camp  beside  its  beaver-haunted  streams. 

And  yet  I  do  not  go.     I  know  this  land 
Would  lose  its  charm  if  other  than  a  dream ; 
So,  when  the  hunter's  moon  hangs  in  the  trees, 
And  when  the  solemn  cricket  pipes  his  lay, 
When  every  impulse  calls  me  to  the  woods 
And  all  my  soul  is  tugging  to  be  free, 
I  do  not  sigh  that  Fate  has  chained  me  down, 
I  rather  seek  companionship  with  thee, 


TO   C.  A.  STEPHENS.  4! 

And  wander  in  a  golden-tinted  dream, 

With  thee  as  guide,  throughout  a  wide  domain 

Unvexed  by  man, — a  happy  hunting  ground. 

Thus  by  the  winter  fire  I  oft  have  roamed 

With  careless  feet  by  Parmachenee's  streams, 

Or  yet  have  paddled  up  the  wild  St.  John, 

Through  Suncook,  Churchill,  and  the  Heron  lakes, 

Upon  whose  broad  expanse  there  moves  no  life, 

Save  where  the  wood  duck  leads  her  timid  fleet, 

Or  where  a  monster  trout  or  maniac  loon 

Breaks  from  the  lake  and  shakes  the  crystal  drops ; 

Through  groves  of  hemlock,  fir,  and  spruce  and  pine, 

As  silent  as  a  vast  cathedral's  aisles 

But  for  the  owl  at  night  and  prowling  bear, 

Or  where  at  dusk  the  deer  and  moose  steal  down 

To  wade  and  feed  within  the  padded  coves. 

We  Ve  stood  at  midnight  on  Katahdin's  dome, 

Or,  by  the  glimmer  of  the  dying  fire, 

Have  watched  the  ghostly  shadows  dance  and  play 

Upon  the  hemlocks  and  the  sable  pines. 

Thou  art  a  poet  with  a  master  pen, 

Thy  soul  has  been  attuned  to  catch  the  song 

That  whispers  from,  the  pathless  wilderness. 


42         SONGS  OF  THE  MAINE  WOODS. 

Within  thy  hand  is  all  the  mystic  lore, 
The  mossy  breath  and  spirit  of  the  woods. 
And  who  has  read  thee  has  a  purer  heart, 
A  greater  love  for  life  and  fellow-man, 
For  Mother  Nature  and  her  solitudes. 

November  25,  1892. 


MORNING   ON   THE   DEAD    RIVER. 

JANUARY. 

Steel-blue  and  cold  as  primal  adamant 

The  cloudless  sky.     The  air  is  tempered  steel, 
And  rings  and  trembles  with  metallic  peal 

With  every  sound.     The  sunbeams  shoot  aslant ; 
The  frost  wreaths  glitter  like  a  magic  band, 
And  like  a  marble  frieze  the  hemlocks  stand. 

The  slowly  moving  sleds  now  creak  in  every  seam, 
The  toiling  oxen  blow  out  clouds  of  steam. 


IN  THE  SUGAR   CAMP.  43 

IN   THE   SUGAR   CAMP. 
MARCH. 

The  sun  is  pouring  from  a  cloudless  sky ; 

The  glittering  snow  o'er  stream  and  field  and  hill 
Will  bear  our  weight ;  there's  summer  in  the  air ; 

But  ah  !  how  bare  the  leafless  wood  and  still ! 

There 's  scarce  a  breath  to  stir  the  maple  trees  ; 

There 's  not  a  wildwood  voice  or  bird  afloat 
Save  the  low  alto  of  the  chickadee, — 

But  hark  !  hurrah  !  the  bluebird's  joyous  note  ! 

And  oh,  the  sun,  the  flooding,  golden  sun ! 

The  roof-trees  pour  their  floods  beneath  its  beams, 
And  from  the  maples  comes  the  gay  drip-drop 

Of  sap  on  every  hand  in  limpid  streams. 

The  sun  rolls  high.     The  snow  no  longer  bears. 

The  roads  are  swimming  o'er  with  bubbling  streams. 
The  tubs  are  filling  in  the  sugar  bush, 

Drip-drop,  and  every  drop  like  crystal  gleams. 


44  SOJVGS  OF  THE  MAINE    WOODS. 

And  now  the  steers.     Leap  on  the  hogshead,  boys, 
'T  is  now  high  time  the  gathering  was  begun ; 

The  snow  is  deep,  but  every  maple  tree 
Must  yield  its  pail  of  sweet  ere  set  of  sun. 

And  next  the  boiling.     Through  the  whole  long  night 
The  foaming  pans  pour  out  their  clouds  of  steam, 

And  when  the  darkness  falls  among  the  trees, 
The  fires  send  o'er  the  snow  their  ruddy  gleam. 

Far  up  the  mountain  moans  a  lonely  owl ; 

The  river's  murmur  comes  from  far  away; 
The  air  is  damp  :  the  breath  of  mossy  woods  ; 

But  all  about  the  fires  is  bright  and  gay. 

For  there  are  stories,  apples  juicy  red, 

And  maple  honey  that  the  snow  might  stain. 

O  vision  of  my  boyhood,  perfect  day, 

I  would  I  might  come  back  to  thee  again. 


THE  ROUND  YEAR. 


THREE   NIGHTS. 

I  love  a  night  in  May, 

Or  early  June  when  cherries  are  in  bloom, 
When  all  the  air  is  heavy  with  delight, 
When  stars  are  dim  and  shed  a  hazy  light ; 
I  love  the  night-jar's  boom, 

The  hermit  thrush,  the  whippoorwill, 
The  vesper  bird,  and  that  mysterious  thrill 
That  floats  from  out  the  marshes  far  away ; 
I  love  a  night  in  May. 

I  love  the  autumn  night, 

In  rich  October  when  the  year  is  full, 

When  katydid  sobs  out  her  quavering  lay, 
And  when  the  owlet  calls  from  far  away ; 
I  love  the  thistle-wool, 

Pale  summer's  ghost,  the  crickets  out  of  tune, 
The  silent  wood,  the  full-orbed  hunter's  moon, 
That  in  the  tree-tops  floods  the  earth  with  light ; 
I  love  the  autumn  night. 


48  THE  ROUND    YEAR. 

But  best  I  love  the  spring, 

The  night  of  March  that  ends  a  cloudless  day, 
When  all  the  forest  whispers,  "  Spring  is  here," 
And  when  the  river  whispers  faint  but  clear 
From  miles  and  miles  away ; 

I  love  the  odors  from  the  mossy  woods, 
Distilled  by  Nature  in  her  solitudes, 
The  dreamy  mists  that  to  the  marshes  cling; 
Ah,  best  I  love  the  spring. 


MARSH    SONG. 

MAY. 

O'er  the  marsh  the  night  is  creeping, 
From  their  chinks  the  bats  are  peeping, 
In  the  rose  the  bee  is  sleeping, — 
Come,  while  vocal  are  the  reeds, 
Let  us  wander  o'er  the  meads. 

Now  like  swarms  of  downy  millers, 
Or  like  droves  of  caterpillars, 
Stand  the  yellow-coated  willows, 
Which,  by  every  zephyr  shook, 
Strew  with  catkins  all  the  brook. 


THE   DEAD  ROBIN.  49 

While  the  day  his  carol  hushes, 
O'er  the  chorus  in  the  rushes 
Swell  the  vespers  of  the  thrushes. 

Far  away  a  deep  bell  rings, 

And  the  night-jar  twangs  his  wings. 

Ah,  dear  love,  the  fair  is  flying, 
All  these  voices  are  but  sighing, 
Brightest  things  how  soon  are  dying, — 

Can  there  ever  come  a  day 

When  our  love  will  fade  away  ? 


THE   DEAD    ROBIN. 

With  May-time  carols  bubbling  in  his  breast, 

By  gladness  led, 
He  flew  to  Winter's  land, — O  impious  hand, 

To  lay  him  dead  ! 

Was  it  for  this  he  braved  the  April  blasts, 

Glad  news  to  bring  ? 
Was  it  for  this  he  bore  to  our  cold  clime 

The  songs  of  spring  ? 


50  THE  ROUND    YEAR. 

Accursed  the  wretch  that  stopped  the  voice  that  sang 

Of  brighter  days  ! 
May  summer  bring  no  joy  to  his  cold  heart, 

His  hope  to  raise. 


THE   HERMIT   THRUSH. 
RONDEL. 

Far,  far  away  in  evening's  hush 
We  caught  a  plaintive,  liquid  lay, 

The  lonely,  love-lorn  hermit  thrush 
Who  sang  the  vesper  hymn  of  day. 

The  fragrant  air  was  drunk  with  May, 
While  from  the  marsh's  tangled  brush, 
Far,  far  away  in  evening's  hush, 

We  caught  a  plaintive,  liquid  lay. 

The  mist  stole  from  the  meadows  lush, 
The  day's  glad  chorus  died  away, 

Save,  half  unheard,  the  river's  rush, 

And  where,  like  murmurs  from  its  spray, 

Far,  far  away  in  evening's  hush, 
We  caught  a  plaintive  liquid  lay. 


SWEET  VIBURNUM.  51 

SWEET   VIBURNUM. 

Sweet  viburnum,  loved  of  bees, 
Wooed  by  Maytime's  softest  breeze, 
By  the  fragrant  riverside, 
Robed  in  whiteness  like  a  bride, 

Decked  with  knots  of  dainty  flowers, 
Bathed  in  Springtime's  sweetest  showers, 
Not  for  thee  the  withering  heat 
And  the  dust  of  Summer's  street. 

Often  of  an  idle  hour 
Have  I  sought  thy  snowy  bower, 
In  a  sweet,  sequestered  nook, 
Cooled  by  odors  from  a  brook, 

And  have  envied  thee  thy  lot : 
For  my  life  is  pressed  and  hot, 
Spotted  o'er  with  earthly  dust, 
Cankered  deep  with  earthly  rust. 

Though  I  lived  but  one  spring  day, 
Fading  with  the  night  away, 
I  have  wished  my  life  might  be 
Sweet  and  stainless,  flower,  like  thee. 


52  THE  ROUND    YEAR. 

THE   FADING    SPRING. 

I  wonder  why  the  bobolinks 

Grow  sad  when  fade  the  flowers  of  Spring ; 
I  wonder  why  when  Summer  comes 

The  bluebirds  all  forget  to  sing. 

I  wonder  why  the  buttercups 

All  fade  at  Springtime's  close  away ; 

And  why  the  brightest  butterflies 
Flit  o'er  the  dreamy  fields  of  May. 

I  wonder  if  my  Spring  is  dead, 

For  oft  of  late  I  sadly  sigh  ; 
I  cannot  sing  the  songs  I  sang  ; 

I  cannot  laugh, — I  wonder  why ! 


JULY.  53 

JULY. 

The  quivering  air  is  filled  with  heat ; 

All  is  silent  as  a  dream, 

Save  the  murmur  of  a  stream, 

Save  the  locust's  far-off  scream, 
And  drowsy  crickets  at  my  feet. 

Oh,  lead  me  to  some  leafy  glen 

Where  the  morning  dew  yet  clings, 

Where  the  matin  bird  yet  sings, 

And  each  cooling  zephyr  brings 
The  odors  of  the  mossy  fen  ! 

What  fitter  task,  then,  could  there  be, 

On  this  drowsy  summer  day, 

From  all  trouble  far  away, 

Than  to  list  the  wood-bird's  lay, 
And  dream,  my  love,  and  dream  of  thee  ? 


54  THE  ROUND    YEAR. 

AT   THE   WAUMBEK. 
AUGUST. 

We  thought  of  clover-haunted  June 

That  merry  August  afternoon, 
For  all  the  fields  were  fresh  and  new, 

And  never  June  had  air  more  clear; 
But,  ah  !  the  early  goldenrod 

Was  whispering  of  the  fading  year. 

We  tried  to  think  't  was  merry  June ; 

But  all  the  birds  were  out  of  tune, 
And  all  day  long  the  woods  were  still, 

Save  for  the  dreamy  harvest  fly, 
Or  where  some  little  mountain  stream 

With  merry  murmurs  hastened  by. 

And  yet  we  thought  of  gorgeous  June,. 

And  all  that  live-long  afternoon 
We  watched  the  shades  upon  the  peaks, 

The  dreamy  clouds  that  floated  by, 
And  asked,  "  Is  autumn  really  here, 

For  when  had  June  a  brighter  sky  ?  '* 


JUNE  AND  NOVEMBER.  55 

JUNE   AND    NOVEMBER. 
TRIOLETS. 

O  summer  days  steal  by  like  happy  dreams, 

And  summer  hours  are  minutes,  love,  with  thee ; 
When  ripples  softly  murmur  on  the  streams, 

0  summer  days  steal  by  like  happy  dreams. 

Half  drunk  with  sweetness  then  the  meadow  seems, 

And  joyous  voices  chant  in  every  tree, 
And  summer  days  steal  by  like  happy  dreams, 

And  summer  hours  are  minutes,  love,  with  thee. 

1  'm  weary,  love,  I  would  I  were  with  thee ; 

I  'm  all  alone  while  blow  the  night-winds  dreary ; 
Lonely  and  sad  the  creeping  hours  flee ; 
I  'm  weary,  love,  I  would  I  were  with  thee. 
The  withered  leaves  flit  o'er  the  barren  lea ; 

In  sad  November  naught  is  gay  or  cheery. 
I  'm  weary,  love,  I  would  I  were  with  thee ; 

I  'm  all  alone  while  blow  the  night  winds  dreary. 


56  THE  ROUND    YEAR. 

INDIAN    SUMMER. 
RONDEAU. 

The  Summer  's  dead ;  but  yet  again, 

Though  faded  leaves  bestrew  the  plain, 

The  yellow  floods  of  mist  that  gleam, 

The  mellow  lights  and  shadows  seem 

Like  Summer's  own  in  Summer's  reign. 

These  smiles  but  cover  o'er  the  pain, 
This  hush  the  breath  a  moment  ta'en 
Before  the  plunge  in  Winter's  stream,— 
The  Summer  's  dead. 

Sing,  heart  of  mine,  thy  sad  refrain, 
For  in  thy  deeps  the  frost  has  lain. 
Thy  hopes  are  leaves  upon  the  stream, 
Thy  love  is  Summer's  blighted  dream, 
And  though  to-day  to  smile  may  deign, 
Thy  Summer 's  dead. 


SNO  WFLAKES.  5  7 

SNOWFLAKES. 

What  think  you  the  robin  thinks, 

Born  amid  the  apple  blossoms, 
And  the  meadow  bobolinks, 

With  their  happy  little  bosoms, 
Fledged  and  flown  ere  June  is  fled, 
When  the  blossoms  all  are  dead  ? 

And  the  burly  bumble  bees, 

Launched  ere  spring's  first  sweets  are  over, 
And  those  sailors  of  the  breeze, 

Born  full  winged  amid  the  clover, — 
What  know  they  of  early  snows 
And  of  winter,  do  you  s'pose  ? 

In  their  happy  little  earth, 

Can  there  be  a  place  for  sorrow  ? 
And  with  summer  days  from  birth, 

What  but  joy  should  fill  to-morrow  ? 
Yet  think  they  the  summer  rose 
Blooms  forever,  do  you  s'pose  ? 


58  THE  ROUND    YEAR. 

What  think  you  our  Robbie  thinks, 
As  the  first  white  snowflakes  gather  ? 

For  his  eyes  he  wisely  blinks, 

He  has  seen  but  summer  weather, — 

What  knows  he  of  winds  that  freeze, 

More  than  bobolinks  or  bees  ? 


IN   THE   HEMLOCKS. 
FEBRUARY. 

There  is  no  sound  save  where  a  chickadee 

With  busy  beak  taps  at  the  hemlock's  bole. 

The  sun  sifts  in  a  few  cold,  cheerless  rays 

From  out  the  south,  between  the  sombre  boughs 

Bent  down  with  snow.     The  shadows  creep  along 

With  noiseless  step  to  eastward,  and  the  night 

Comes  quickly  on, — the  cold,  still  night. 

The  moonbeams  here  and  there  have  pierced  the  boughs, 

To  fall  in  ghostly  flecks  amid  the  gloom. 


SEVENTEEN  SONNETS. 


I. 

AFTER   READING   MILTON. 

As  one  who  at  his  harpsichord  doth  pine 

With  aching  head  and  faint  and  sick  at  heart, 
With  weary  fingers  stumbling  in  their  part, 

Until  the  notes  seem  tangled  line  with  line, 

And  sudden  hears,  like  thunders  from  the  brine, 
The  organ  roll  of  Handel  or  Mozart 
Till  rapture  strikes  him  dumb  and  teardrops  start, 

So  on  me  burst  thy  lines,  O  bard  divine ! 

And  I  had  thought  to  sing.     I  oft  had  tried, 
With  many  a  jarring  note  and  tangled  chord, 

To  voice  a  melody  that  would  not  come. 
Yet  had  I  not  despaired :  but  I  have  cried, 

"  Have  hope,  work  on,  and  time  will  bring  reward  ;  " 
But  thy  deep  organ  peal  has  made  me  dumb. 

December,  1889. 


<)2  SEVENTEEN  SONNETS. 

II. 

FOR   A   COPY   OF   BYRON. 

Oft  in  the  dead  of  winter  and  of  night, 
In  my  lone  cabin  on  the  wild  St.  John, 
When  from  the  blustering  north  a  storm  was  on, 

With  bated  breath  I  Ve  listened  to  the  fight 

Made  by  a  mighty  hemlock  on  the  height, 

With  roars  of  torment  sullen  and  long  drawn ; 
And  I  have  seen,  when  broke  the  angry  dawn, 

Its  writhing  branches  battling  with  their  might. 

And,  mighty  master,  I  have  thought  of  thee, 
Assailed  by  Fate  and  bitter  circumstance, 

The  sport  of  envy,  galled,  misunderstood, 
Till  all  thy  heavenly  gift  of  melody 

Poured  out  itself  beneath  pain's  bitter  lance, 
And  voiced  with  sullen  roars  thy  solitude. 

August,  1892. 


ON  SEEING  A   SKULL.  63 

III. 

ON    SEEING   A   SKULL. 

This  hollow  shell  was  once  with  radiance  crowned, 

This  flimsy  wall,  for  threescore  years  and  ten, 

A  restless  thing  caged  in  a  prison  pen ; 
A  thing  that  knew  no  bounds,  and  yet  was  bound, 
About  these  mystic  mazes  coiled  and  wound ; 

A  being  from  a  world  unknown  to  men, 

An  angel  sweet  or  monster  of  the  fen, 
A  moment  caught  in  this  enchanted  ground. 

Does  not  the  deathless,  disembodied  mind, 
When  once  it  bursts  the  fetters  of  the  clay, 

Disport  upon  the  air  in  ecstasy  ? 
Does  it  not  dally  with  the  wanton  wind, 
And  loathe  the  filthy  cell  where  late  it  lay 
A  weary  captive  longing  to  be  free  ? 


64  SEVENTEEN  SONNETS. 

IV. 
REMORSE. 

O  memory,  and  do  you  never  die  ? 

Must  I  for  aye  thy  babbling  echoes  hear  ? 

Is  there  no  drug  that  will  thy  records  sear  ? 
Is  there  no  lotos  land  toward  which  to  fly, 
Where,  wrapped  in  sweet  oblivion,  I  may  lie, 

Nor  hear  thy  hell-voice  whispering  in  my  ear  ? 

Or  art  thou  king  in  even  Pluto's  sphere, 
With  neither  Death  nor  Time  to  loose  thy  tie  ? 

Oh,  could  I  blot  thee,  burn  thee  at  a  breath, 
As  burn  these  records  in  the  ashes  cast, 

And  start  afresh  life's  weary  tale  to  pen ! 
If  Death  will  sear,  come  ghastly  visaged  Death, 
And  with  thy  bony  hand  erase  the  past. 

Do  as  thou  wilt,  and  then, — ah,  God,  what  then  ? 


FADED  PANSIES.  65 

V. 
FADED   PANSIES. 

Ah,  faded  pansies, — withered  thoughts  of  thine, — 

When  in  their  happy  past  they  came  to  me 

In  all  their  dewy  freshness  new  from  thee, 
Intoxicated,  as  with  spiced  wine, 
I  pressed  their  message-laden  lips  to  mine ; 

I  breathed  their  faint  perfume,  that  seemed  to  be 

A  breath  from  thy  sweet  self,  in  ecstasy, 
And  long  I  dreamed  wild  dreams, — O  joy  divine ! 

I  might  have  known,  had  I  but  cared  to  know, 
That  in  a  day  my  heaven-tinted  dreams, 

These  flowers,  these  thoughts  of  thine,  would  all  be  dead. 
I  might  have  known  that  heaven  lies  not  below, 
And  that  our  eyes  catch  only  transient  gleams 
Of  joy  divine,  in  blissful  moments  shed. 


66  SEVENTEEN  SONNETS. 

VI. 

THE   NIGHT   OF   MAY. 

O  press  me  to  thy  bosom  soft  and  white, 
Thy  bare  and  pulsing  bosom,  night  of  May ; 
Thy  maiden  breath  will  thrill  this  pain  away. 

O  drown  me  with  thy  perfume,  press  me  tight, 

For  I  am  sick  and  weary  of  the  fight, 

For  dark  unrest  has  claimed  me  for  his  prey, 
Ambition's  hell  has  robbed  me  of  my  day. 

O  breathe  on  me  thy  breath,  mysterious  Night. 

Stay  with  me,  holy  one,  forever  nigh, 
O  let  me  lie  forever  on  thy  breast : 

I  feel  a  passionate  thrill  in  every  vein 
Beneath  thy  breath.     Stay,  stay,  O  do  not  fly ! — 
The  burning  day  will  give  me  to  unrest, 
And  on  thy  beating  heart  I  feel  no  pain. 


TO  A   ROBIN.  67 

VII. 
TO   A   ROBIN. 

Chief  songster  in  the  chorus  of  the  morn, 
Oft  hast  thou  roused  me  with  thy  roundelay, 
Ere  yet  a  shape  of  night  had  slunk  away, 

Or  yet  a  blush  within  the  east  was  born ; 

So  eager  thou,  glad  herald  of  the  dawn, 
To  wake  thy  feathered  minstrels  and  essay 
To  trill  the  rapturous  welcome  to  the  day 

With  bubbling  throats,  and  banish  night  forlorn. 

0  happy  bird,  I  would  thy  faith  were  mine, 
That  in  the  storm  and  darkness  I  could  see 

A  ray  of  hope,  a  hint  of  dawn,  and  sing. 

1  would  my  heart  could  feel  the  light  as  thine, 

For  every  shade  is  doubly  dark  to  me, 
And  only  in  the  sun  my  fears  take  wing. 


68  SEVENTEEN  SONNETS. 

VIII. 
O    SUMMER   NIGHT! 

The  sun  is  setting  o'er  the  meadow's  brim, 
And  from  the  river  in  the  waning  light 
There  steals  the  hush  and  odor  of  the  night, 

And  I  am  dreaming.     Yonder,  by  the  dim 

Uncertain  shore,  a  phantom  boatman  grim 

Is  gathering  driftwood  in,  while  o'er  the  height, 
Across  the  south,  come  noiseless  flashes  bright, 

And  from  the  marshes  evening's  vesper  hymn. 

O  Summer  night !  I  would  that  I  might  sit 
Forever  in  thy  spell  and  list  thy  song ! 

That  in  thy  mystic  light  I  might  remain, 
And  watch  for  aye  the  ghostly  gleams  that  flit 
Across  thy  south,  nor  think  again  of  wrong 
And  fate  that  binds  me  to  my  bitter  pain. 


AUGUST.  69 

IX. 

AUGUST. 
NOON. 

The  swooning  meadows  lie  like  summer  seas ; 

The  landscape  reels ;  a  quivering,  ghastly  gleam 

Bedims  the  fields ;  as  in  a  spell  they  seem, 
Save  where  the  redtop  rolls  with  scarce  a  breeze, 
And  mowers  in  the  clover  to  their  knees 

Seem  threading  out  the  mazes  of  a  dream ; 

No  sound  save  far  away  the  locust's  scream, 
Or  dreamily  a  bird-voice  in  the  trees. 

The  cricket's  monotone  amid  the  grass 
Is  scarcely  heard — a  soothing  lullaby — 

And  steady  drones  the  summer-sounding  bee. 
The  mingled  notes  to  sleepy  murmurs  pass, 
Without  a  sound  floats  o'er  a  butterfly, 

And  drowsiness  and  dreams  steal  over  me. 


70  SEVENTEEN  SONNETS. 

X. 

SEPTEMBER. 

O  mellow  month,  sweet  month  of  dreamy  days, 
O  month  without  a  thought  of  pain  or  wrong, 
The  poet's  month  of  beauty,  wild  and  strong, 

Of  early  goldenrod,  of  ripening  maize, 

Of  mountains  dimly  outlined  through  the  haze, 
Of  silence,  save  at  night  the  cricket's  song 
So  sad, — O  heavenly  goddess,  tarry  with  us  long, 

O  let  us  live  and  dream  with  thee  always. 

And  art  thou  gone  ?     O  stay,  my  heart,  thy  fears, 
Reflect  and  weigh ;  perchance  this  borderland, 
This  month  of  gold  is  May's  ecstatic  stream, 
And  joyous  summer  soon  may  dry  thy  tears, 
Perchance  thy  happiest  days  are  yet  at  hand. 
Fear  not,  my  heart,  at  least 't  is  thine  to  dream. 


OCTOBER.  71 

XI. 
OCTOBER. 

The  cheerless  fields  of  summer's  glory  shorn ; 

The  wailing  winds  at  night ;  the  ashy  sky ; 

The  sunny  goldenrod  about  to  die, 
And  on  the  meads  the  wigwams  of  the  corn. 
Hushed  is  the  anthem  that  erst  hailed  the  morn, 

Stilled,  too,  the  dream-note  of  the  harvest-fly, 

Yet  now  and  then  a  thistle-bird  floats  by, 
And  from  the  hills  resounds  the  hunter's  horn. 

O  sad,  still  month,  of  all  the  months  most  rare ! 

0  mellow  month  of  dreams  and  poesy ! 
Whene'er  I  move  in  thine  enchanted  air 

1  feel  like  one  who  walks  in  Arcady, 

Where  sounds  are  hushed  and  hills  are  dimly  seen, 
And  all  is  buried  in  a  golden  sheen. 


72  SEVENTEEN  SONNETS. 

XII. 
NOVEMBER. 

Drear  as  the  last  night's  banquet  hall  at  morn, 
Its  fairy  trappings  ruffled,  soiled,  and  dead, 
The  beauty  vanished  and  the  dancers  fled, 

Now  lies  gay  summer  in  a  wreck  forlorn. 

Forever  is  the  dream  of  beauty  gone — 

The  mellow  haze,  the  tints  of  gold  and  red — 
For  all  the  trees  their  royal  robes  have  shed, 

And  sere  the  fields  where  waved  the  golden  corn. 

There  is  no  voice  in  all  the  woods  to  sing, 
The  trees  are  lifeless  and  the  flowers  are  few, 

The  world  seems  waiting  for  the  snow  to  bring 
Its  kindly  robe  to  hide  her  shame  from  view ; 

And  on  each  breeze  we  catch  the  mournful  sigh, 

"  When  wealth  and  beauty  come,  alas,  we  die." 

November,  1888. 


THE  HOUSE   ON  THE  MARSH.  73 

XIII. 

THE   HOUSE  ON   THE   MARSH. 
DECEMBER. 

O'er  all  the  meadows,  where  in  joyous  June 
The  birds  and  flowers  had  made  a  fairyland, 
Now  spreads  the  flood  with  ruin  on  every  hand, 

And  naught  is  seen  in  bleak  December's  noon 

Save  wreck  and  death,  and  summer's  glory  strewn 
Upon  the  stream,  yet  thy  trim  lodges  stand, 
O  naiads  of  the  marsh,  in  autumn  planned 

For  days  of  flood  and  bitter  cold  a  boon. 

O  soul  of  mine,  I  would  that  thy  fair  dream, 
To  build  secure  a  lodge  'mid  fadeless  bloom, 

Might  come  at  last,  for  much  I  fear  the  flow 
And  sullen  murmur  of  that  nearing  stream, 

That  soon  may  change  my  summer  into  gloom, 
And  leave  me  drifting — where,  I  do  not  know. 


74  SEVENTEEN  SONNETS. 


XIV. 

FOR    A    COPY    OF   "SONGS   ABOUT    LIFE,    LOVE, 
AND    DEATH." 

Life,  Love,  and  Death,  three  fates  with  might  immense ! 

To  every  soul  that  dons  the  feeble  clay 

They  all  must  come,  and  which  is  greatest  say : 
Frail  Life,  with  mystic  web  of  what  and  whence ; 
Or  mighty  Love,  the  wanton  god  of  sense ; 

Or  Death,  who  sweeps  Life's  flimsy  web  away  ? 

Three  powers  supreme,  and  which  is  chiefest,  pray  ? 
For  each  must  shake  the  soul  with  vehemence. 

And  lo !  a  voice  with  passion  all  athrill 

Of  one  who  sang  with  fierce,  exulting  breath ! 

"  Love  is  the  king ! "  it  cried,  "  Love,  strong  and  fair. 
Life  yields  to  Death ;  Love  bends  both  to  his  will." 
Then  straight  it  prayed,  with  passion  wild,  for  Death, 
And  listening  heaven  heard  the  reckless  prayer. 

December  23,  1892. 


AT  MIDNIGHT.  75 

XV. 
AT  MIDNIGHT. 

Sometimes  a  nameless  joy  thrills  in  my  soul 
When  on  a  moonless  night  I  view  the  sky ; 
Sometimes  I  dream  that  all  the  gulfs  that  He 

In  nether  space,  the  worlds  'twixt  pole  and  pole, 

My  feet  shall  know  when  tardy  days  shall  roll ; 
Sometimes,  again,  the  joys  within  me  die, 
Ashamed,  I  cry  with  David,  "  What  am  I  ? " 

Oh,  what  an  atom,  when  I  view  the  whole ! 

Must  I  be  blotted  out  ?     Shall  I  not  soar 

Sometime,  like  thought,  from  void  to  farthest  void ; 

Or,  fettered,  shall  I  perish  here  below  ? 
O  I  have  prayed,  with  face  upon  the  floor, 
A  fierce,  wild  prayer  that  I  be  not  destroyed, 
That  dying,  I  may  live  and  soar  and  know. 

December,  1892. 


76  SEVENTEEN  SONNETS. 

XVI. 
FOR  A   FLY-LEAF   OF  "THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY." 

TO    A.    S.    HARDY. 

And  are  we  then  borne  headlong  to  our  fate, 
Like  thistledown  or  leaf  upon  the  flow, 
A  breath  to  toss  to  ecstasy  or  woe, 

And  not  the  masters  of  our  own  estate  ? 

Oh,  is  it  true  that  love  is  but  a  bait, 

A  voice  that  whispers  "  Come,"  and  we  must  go, 
Though  bitter  pain  and  tears  and  death  we  know 

Lurk  in  the  call  and  jeer  us  when  too  late  ? 

O  penner  of  this  wild,  despairing  cry, 
Is  it  a  dream,  a  dismal  fantasie, 

From  which  thou  glad  awoke ;  or  does  it  tell 
The  record  of  thy  soul  ?     Is  it  a  sigh 
That  burst  thy  lips  to  voice  thy  misery ; 
Or  is  it  life  ?     If  so,  what  need  of  Hell  ? 

January,  1887. 


TO   CHARLES  HENRY  LUDERS.  77 

XVII. 
TO    CHARLES    HENRY   LUDERS. 

This  clay  of  ours  is  but  a  feeble  thong, 

A  flimsy  web  to  bind  a  soul  like  thine. 

The  dainty  chalice  could  not  hold  the  wine  ; 
The  trembling  viol  could  not  hold  the  song ; 
The  lute  string,  'neath  a  passion  all  too  strong, 

Rang  sweet,  and  snapped  upon  the  opening  line. 

And  dazed  we  weep  and  curse,  the  fates  malign, 
And  vainly  ask  what  might  have  been  ere  long. 

And  shall  we  mourn  the  voiceless,  broken  lyre, 
The  shattered  beaker,  and  the  vanished  joy  ? 

And  shall  we  weep  ?     Ah  !  better  to  be  glad, 
For  we  have  caught  a  glimpse  of  heavenly  fire  ; 
A  gift  is  ours  which  time  cannot  destroy : 

Heaven  deemed  us  worthy ;  why  should  we  be  sad  ? 


PASTELS. 


I. 

THE   FORGOTTEN    PICTURE. 

As  by  magic  came  again  all  the  scenes  of  a  summer 
long  ago  by  the  sea.  The  old  spell  was  on  him  again.  As 
he  looked  into  the  eyes  of  the  picture,  he  saw  the  dreams  of 
other  days. 

He  felt  his  heart  beating  as  it  beat  when  he  pinned  the 
wild  rose  to  her  bosom.  He  saw  the  mild  beauties  of  the 
early  autumn.  Was  the  summer  really  over?  Surely  the 
golden-rod  never  opened  so  early  before ! 

Oh,  that  summer  by  the  sea !  In  a  dream  he  lived  it 
again.  He  saw  now  a  plump,  girlish  figure  in  a  tennis  suit. 
With  what  art  its  folds  clung  to  her  figure !  Now  it  was  a 
snowy  bosom  in  a  ball  dress ;  now  an  earnest,  tearful  face 
that  looked  up  to  his  confidingly. 

How  his  heart  was  beating ! 

Ah  !  she  faded  from  him  with  the  summer,  but  she  left  a 
mark  in  his  life.  Do  you  see  the  tears  in  his  eyes?  Do 
you  see  the  sparkle  and  the  joy?  He  is  pinning  again 
a  wild  rose  to  her  bosom. 


82  PASTELS. 

II. 
THE   NOON   HOUR. 

It  is  the  time  of  the  year  when  the  shadows  at  noon  are 
the  longest.  It  is  a  cloudless  day,  but  a  snow-bank  of 
clouds  hangs  in  the  south,  telling  of  to-morrow. 

Nature  is  as  silent  as  death.  The  sun  pours  from  the 
south  a  soft,  yellow  light  which  gleams  on  the  snow. 

The  square  of  the  little  country  village  is  full  of  life. 
Here  and  there  are  yokes  of  patient  oxen  busily  eating  the 
fodder  which  they  have  drawn  since  the  early  morning  on 
their  loads  of  wood. 

Their  masters,  with  bearded  faces,  rough,  warm  garments, 
and  wool  boots,  are  eating  from  the  pails  which  they  have 
brought  with  them.  Their  loud  laugh  comes  over  to  me. 
By  and  by  they  light  their  pipes  and  tell  of  to-morrow's 
storm,  the  price  of  wood  and  hay,  and  the  merits  of  their 
oxen. 

There  is  the  look  of  slavery  about  the  oxen,  and  they 
murmur  not  when  they  must  start  again  on  the  journey. 
The  sleds  creak  on  the  frozen  snow.  Merry  sleighs  dash  by 
with  jingling  bells.  I  hear  the  loud  voices  of  the  drivers  as 
they  urge  on  the  slow  oxen.  Then  the  square  is  silent. 


AFTER   THE  STORM.  83 

III. 

AFTER   THE   STORM. 

It  had  rained  all  night.  Once  or  twice  the  very  violence 
of  the  storm  had  awakened  me,  for  the  wind  dashed  the 
rain  in  sheets  against  the  windows  and  howled  dismally 
down  the  chimney.  A  look  into  the  darkness  had  revealed 
a  sky  filled  with  blackness  and  the  spectral  forms  of  trees 
wrestling  with  the  storm. 

But  morning  dawned  with  a  crystal  sky.  The  haze  which 
had  haunted  the  horizon  for  weeks  was  all  gone.  The 
morning  was  like  one  in  June. 

Even  before  light  a  single  sparrow,  the  lone  remnant  of 
summer's  chorus,  was  trilling  his  welcome  to  the  morn  in 
the  wet  hedge. 

Yesterday  I  heard  him  singing  in  the  rain. 


84  PASTELS. 

IV. 
A   NIGHT   IN    MAY. 

Then  night  comes  on,  and  the  thrush  is  still.  Along  the 
meadows  a  wavy  breath  of  mist,  like  spirits  of  the  marsh, 
breathes  up,  and  black  shadows  of  noiseless  night-jars 
sweep  by. 

The  river  murmurs  with  a  far-borne  monotone,  and — 
hush ! — away,  oh,  how  far  away,  a  lonely  trill,  borne  from 
distance  vague,  a  voice  pulsing  with  a  nameless  longing,  a 
wild  unrest,  which  has  caught  the  spirit  of  the  spring  and 
vibrates  with  the  night  in  tune. 

It  strikes  a  chord  in  my  soul,  which  trembles  and  pulses 
with  a  wild  joy  that  I  cannot  understand. 


AFTER  OUR  SUMMER.  85 

V. 

AFTER   OUR   SUMMER. 

We  knew  that  the  summer  was  over,  for  the  calendar  told 
us  that  September  was  creeping  by ;  but  the  days  were  so 
bright,  and  the  summer  had  so  quietly  melted  into  autumn, 
that  we  could  not  realize  that  it  was  not  summer  still. 

But  the  birds  were  silent  now,  and  the  crickets  were  be 
ginning  to  chirp  mournfully  at  eventide,  and  some  of  the 
trees  by  the  roadside  were  getting  yellow  in  their  tops.  The 
grapes  were  coloring,  and  down  in  the  meadows  the  maize- 
fields  were  Indian  villages. 

Yes,  we  knew  it  was  autumn,  yet  we  tried  to  delude  our 
selves.  The  summer  had  been  so  bright  for  us,  such  a  per 
fect  summer  in  our  lives,  that  it  was  almost  as  if  we  could 
not  let  it  go. 


86  PASTELS. 

VI. 
THE   SUMMER   SHOWER. 

m 

It  was  dusty  and  hot.  The  air  was  like  a  furnace,  and 
the  clover  drooped  languidly  at  mid-day.  A  pall  of  smoke 
hid  the  horizon  and  smothered  the  day.  The  hills  seemed 
like  the  landscape  of  a  dream,  and  even  the  sounds  of  the 
summer  day  seemed  vague  and  far  away. 

The  west  at  evening  had  the  brazen  glow  of  a  furnace. 
The  sun  was  a  disk  of  brass,  and  it  was  twilight  before  he 
sank  below  the  horizon. 

There  steals  from  the  smoke  in  the  west  a  black,  jagged 
form.  Slowly  as  a  serpent  it  creeps  to  the  zenith.  It  covers 
the  sun  with  a  great  gloom.  It  is  twilight,  but  how  differ 
ent  from  that  at  nightfall !  The  landscape  takes  on  a  livid 
green  tint.  The  uncovered  eastern  sky  contrasts  strangely 
with  the  west. 

A  distant  grumble  of  thunder  comes  from  the  cloud.  The 
swallows  fill  the  air,  darting  and  twittering.  Then  a  shiver 
runs  through  the  treetops,  then  a  rushing  wind.  Leaves  are 
whirled  far  up  into  the  air,  and  some  of  them  are  green. 

Large,  scattered  drops  of  rain  begin  to  descend  upon  the 
parched  earth.  The  haymaker,  with  hastily-loaded  wain, 


THE  SUMMER  SHOWER.  87 

rushes  with  all  speed  to  the  barn.  The  thunder  becomes  a 
continuous  roll,  and  the  rain  pours  in  torrents. 

And  now  the  violence  of  the  storm  abates ;  the  thunder 
rolls  away  to  the  east.  By  and  by  the  sun  bursts  from  the 
west,  and  the  landscape  seems  new  from  the  hand  of  God. 
How  green  are  the  forests  !  How  bright  are  the  glistening 
raindrops !  How  the  sun  lights  up  the  sullen  clouds  re 
treating  in  the  east !  > 

The  robin's  nest  is  full  of  water,  but  its  master  is  in  the 
treetop  thanking  the  god  of  the  rain. 


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